


Blessed Be Thy Rains

by AmateurScribes



Series: Bad Things Happen (to Grif) Bingo [7]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Agnostic Character, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Manipulation, Massacred Colony Survivor Grif, Mind Games, Minor Character Death, Religious Conflict, Religious Content, Religious Fanaticism, Time Travel, well not for long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 00:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16074575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurScribes/pseuds/AmateurScribes
Summary: Grif wakes up with a respirator attached to his face and two different bodies dead in the corridor.He wakes up a second time soaked to the bone, feeling the importance of time and hisloyaltymost of all settle within his core.The third time he wakes up, he feels very,verywrong.





	Blessed Be Thy Rains

**Author's Note:**

> I'd just like to preface this by saying, I don't mind any harm with the discussions of religion in this fic. Like Grif, I myself am agnostic, and a lot of the internal conflict if based with my own grapple with religion. I really wanted to hone in on this topic since the Cosmic Powers actively choose to portray themselves as Gods, and I wanted to explore that aspect of their character a tad more. That being said I hope you guys enjoy this one!

He had stumbled down the corridor of the base, hand clutching tightly against the odd respirator attached to his face. His eyes were blown wide as he blindly felt up the wall, stabilizing himself as best he could trying not to trip on any of the bodies he quite literally stumbled across.

Grif doesn't know how this happened. His memories were foggy but he remembered walking down a corridor on the opposite side of the base when he felt someone reach out and grab him from behind, pressing something hard against his face. The world had become blurred and nothing looked right. He saw the floor rush up to him, but he didn't feel it. Just a vague numbness as his body collided against the cool metal.

He woke up leaning against the wall, scorch marks decorating the wall in front of him. That and the feeling that something was tight against his face jolted him forward, grappling at anything in front of him.

It just so happened that he grabbed tightly against a maimed hand of one of the other privates stationed at the base. It was loosely connected to the forearm, and just the tug of Grif pulling against it severed that last tendon. 

He became face to face with a severed hand before he even could hear the repugnant  _ tear _ of the flesh.

He screamed and threw it away from him, watching it collide against the wall. It slid down, blood trailing after it, and it landed against the brain matter of the dead body of an Elite.

His hands surged towards his mouth-  _ he felt like he was going to through up, that the bile would just spill from his mouth unwarranted- _ when he felt something blocking his way. 

He poked and prodded, did his best to try and see what it was that was practically glued to his face. Glitters of glass from his broken visor fluttered before his view and landed on the ground, a bright contrast to the darkened and dried blood from the body lying upon the ground.

Reaching up to tug at it, he was horrified to find that it just  _ wouldn't come off. _ He felt like he was tearing at his face at every yank of the device. And every harried and hasty breath came off as a sharp hiss from the device. 

It just  _ wouldn't come off. _

In his panic he stumbled up, resting on one knee as he supported himself with the other, hands preoccupied with the device. Before he knew it both feet were underneath him and he was stumbling backward. 

His back was against the wall, hands only resting against the handles of the device. And he wondered just what the hell he had gotten himself into. 

Grif ignored the device, for now, it wouldn't do him any good to focus on something that wasn't going to disappear anytime soon. So he focused on the two bodies nearby him instead.

He had to remind himself that he  _ couldn't throw up, there was no way for the bile to leave his body and he would choke to death on his own vomit- an undignified death when compared to the two soldiers in front of him. _

Grif looked down both ways of the corridor, and he picked one and just followed it.

None of the other corridors were any better. Body after body, species varying, no two sides were spared. Blood colored red and purple, navy blue and bright orange. Abstract, the splatters and puddles and streaks made a painting. 

But Grif didn't know what it meant. Doesn't know what happened. Somehow he had fallen asleep, the feel of something being pressed against his face.

And his mind just can't wrap around the idea that  _ something _ had happened. 

So he walked, hand pressed against his face in a corridor far different than the one he woke up in, trying not to trample over bodies and spread their guts further than when they died. 

The bodies were like dolls, puppets with their strings cut. They looked peaceful, blood streaking his fellow private's chins, eyes glassy. He'd never thought he'd see the aliens look so much like his fellow humans. But in death, he saw no difference. 

Their bodies were so still and they weren't going to get up any time soon.

The temperature was dropping the closer he got to the hangar of the base. He knew everyone was dead on the inside, but maybe on the outside, there could be  _ someone alive besides him. _

The standard armor the UNSC provided for the army wasn't enough to stop his shivering, and he was sure if he didn't have the respirator in front of him he would be able to see his own exhales. The colony was rarely ever this cold, and he'd liked to think he'd been here long enough to experience most of the temperature ranges this planet good reach. 

The bodies got more clustered the closer he got to the hanger, and his tinted visor hid the true nature of the smoke filling the hallway. 

A small part of him suddenly became grateful for the device that was blocking the toxic air from filling up his lungs and corroding him from the inside out. 

Coming upon the corridor he was horrified to find that it was hardly there. His ears were assaulted by the sounds of rain and winds slicing and pelting against the walls of the base if you could even call them that anymore. 

Standing on the platform, looking down at the carnage of bodies facing upside down and various vehicles turned on their sides, parts were strewn about in the water that was quickly filling up the once pristine hangar. 

The howling of the storm raging above caused the water to surge and sway, carrying bodies back and forth, taunting him with their deaths. 

He felt rain beat against his visor, trying to crack it and reach his face. His helmet on barely covered his hair, and he could feel the water pierce through his skin beneath his standard uniform. 

Grif's knees felt weak, and the roars of the colony were getting drowned out by his own internal inferno. Hand reaching up one last time, he aimed to give a strong  _ yank _ against the apparatus clutching his face. 

He wanted to inhale the toxic smoke, wanted it to strangle him so that he didn't have to be the only one left alone on this colony.

It would be like sleeping, and it could join all the other dolls instead of living in disgrace for the rest of his life. He couldn't live with himself if he had to deal with the fact that he got to live and everyone else got to die. 

Because he was asleep. 

It wasn't fair.

Just as his fingers graced across the base of the device, a voice cut through the storm, speaking, "I wouldn't attempt that if I were you, Private Grif."

The air left his body in a loud hiss, his shock causing him to jolt forward, and the rain petting the platform, running down the incline carried him off in a rush into the depths that had spawned overnight.

He felt the water rush over his cheeks, finally getting beneath his visor, and the heavy pack on his back dragged him beneath the depths. 

Grif felt his back hit solidly against the floor that he had walked upon just the day before. His eyes scrunched closed, preventing the water mixed with dirt and rubble and shrapnel and blood from coating them in a deadly embrace. 

His heart speeds faster and faster, and he inhaled and exhaled, seeing the bubbles rise to the surface.

What was once water, but was now a concoction of death didn't rush past his lips and fill up his lungs.

And he stayed there lying underneath the gentle waves of the raging storm. 

In the back of his mind, the memory of him and Kai celebrating his nineteenth birthday passed by in a light gossamer of peace. That was a year ago. 

He had dropped out and enlisted a year ago. 

Grif felt the water ripple around him, and although he loathed to do so, he pried his eyes open, leaving them undefended against the harsh waters. Through blurry and stinging eyes he saw a great form preside over him, and if he were more coherent he would wonder at how a person could stand on top of the water.

But then the form was leaning down and reaching for him, hoisting him up from the watery depths. 

He took in a sharp breath as he broke the surface of the water, his lungs spasming at the lack of  _ change. _ It felt like he should have coughed and spilled out water from deep within his body. But the respirator has prevented water from slipping in, and it was only his mind that fooled his body. 

Grif's body was pulled along through the water, and he bumped against a few bodies along the way to the platform again. He shivered and it wasn't because of the freezing weather. 

He was dropped on top of the platform, a shivering mess  _ now because of being soaked, _ and he looked up through blurry eyes to see a large towering form. 

The person before him was tall, very tall. But not just tall, it was like they had a completely different standard for proportions- they literally towered over him. He noticed their armor, primarily grey with orange trimmings, noticing that it wasn't any standard UNSC military uniform. 

He's heard stories, about super soldiers. Far taller than any normal human, wearing armor that linked to them neurally, that only they had the strength to wield. They seemed distant to him, rumors that he heard but never believed. Things with no way for him to confirm their truth. But he's heard that they were fearsome.

But he wouldn't know why one would be here, now. On a planet that the Covenant had since abandoned after the slaughter. He hadn't even left the base yet and he knew everyone else was dead. The planet was desolate, abandoned. The colony had nothing of interest for these soldiers. It was a planet of death, where only he was the one who was left behind.

Why would there be a Spartan in front of him, saving his life?

"To think," the Spartan moved to kneel in front of him, and yet he still managed to tower over him. "That I attached that to you to save your life, and you try to remove it."

Grif furrowed his brows at that, he wanted to ask what the Spartan meant. He wanted to know when they did that, and he thinks distantly of what he remembered last before waking up to a massacre.

He has too many questions, but all he does is breath in and out, listening to the rhythmic hiss of the respirator.

"Why do you not speak," the Spartan tilted his head. The odd shape of his helmet reminded Grif of a water mine, or perhaps a spider, with multiple eyes all looking down and judging him and what he's done. "The device I placed upon you, it allows you to do so. I crafted it myself."

"Why," he immediately rasps out. "Why did you save  _ my _ life?"

The Spartan stood tall, and he looked down at him. "Because you are important."

Grif was going to interrupt him, inform the mistaken Spartan that he really wasn't all that much, not all that special. 

He didn't have a chance to as the Spartan continued, "You a merely a pawn in the grand scheme of things according to the others, but to me you are invaluable."

He could only stutter out a, "What?"

The Spartan ignored him and walked into the base, meandering about until he found a gravity hammer out of reach of a corpse reaching for it. He picked it up with ease, and as Grif watched his grip tighten on it.

"Tell me, Private Grif," the Spartan looked down at him. With gentle ease, the gravity hammer was resting lightly across his shoulder. "Do you believe in God?"

Grif blinked, letting the hiss of the breathing apparatus fill the silence. His cracked orange visor wasn't able to hide his perplexed look from the other being. 

Did he believe in God? No- or at least, he was sure that there wasn't really any God out there that  _ cared. _

There was too much pain throughout his entire life to justify the existence of a benevolent other being, watching over him and his sister suffering constantly.

He studied philosophy for a bit before he dropped out of college and enlisted. He had no real interest in it but it was something to do to try to get the credits he needed to graduate. Well, if he was to graduate. 

Which he didn't. 

But in those last few odd classes he attended before he just gave up on school in general, he paid little attention to all their discussions and debates on the nature of a God. 

Grif felt that they were all wrong anyway. If there was a higher being, then they had no plan for them. Or if they did, they obviously didn't care who suffered on the way. He'd like to think that he suffered because life sucked, not because a holy creator couldn't give a damn about their creations.

So no, he didn't believe in God. Not fully.

Because there's always that small part of him that whispers,  _ what if? _

What if there is a God? And they knew his thoughts about them?

Would he have to face eternal damnation? Those were the kind of thoughts that kept him awake far too long into the night.

But there was no guarantee on everything. He'd believe it when he saw it. He'd give the benefit of the doubt on such a holy being.

Err on the side of caution. Don't jump onto either side of the fence. Be a disbeliever until proven wrong, be open to the  _ possibility. _

Looking up at the Spartan, he feels his heart pound against his rib cage in confusion and fear.

But the Spartan was looking for an answer, and he provided one, "I'm agno-"

At the same time as he spoke,  _ his _ voice filtered through the speaker of the Spartan before him,  _ "-stic." _

It was his voice. Maybe sounding a bit older but that was  _ his voice. _

"Yes, I'm aware," the Spartan sauntered closer to where Grif was still knelt down on the ground, the rain pelting down upon him. "You have gone on too long without acknowledging our existence."

"Wh- what do you mean," he stuttered. "Are you- are you talking about the  _ Spartans?" _

"You think me a Spartan?" The head tilt was back. "I am far beyond those mockeries of human perfection."

Holding out his hand, he looked down at Grif, expecting him to accept the offered help up. Tentatively, Grif placed his hand in the others grasp and let himself be pulled up. 

"I am one of many," the man proclaimed. Grif craned his head to look up at him. "I am one of the highest Cosmic Powers, a God among you mortals, blessed with the name Burnstorm."

Flinching back, but mindful of the slippery surface, Grif felt panic grown on his face.

That  _ what if, what if what if- _ was pounding against his temples, as he watched the lumbering figure adjust his grip on the gravity hammer.

"You wonder many things," the so-called Cosmic Power stated. "But for now I shall satisfy two of your questions. That device upon your face cannot be removed until you leave this planet, and I will advise you from trying to remove it so. The air is no longer breathable on this planet, if you were to take it off you would surely die."

Grif's hands surged upwards to the respirator, pressing heavily against it as is eyes went wide. He wonders how many of the bodies in the halls died in battle, and how many survived but then succumbed to a lack of oxygen and died.

But he was alive. Because a- a  _ God _ deemed him worthy of life, for  _ whatever reason. _

"As for your second query, you wonder as to what had occurred here whilst you slept," the Cosmic Power walked past him, towards the end of the platform. Gracefully he walked off it, landing on top of the water, armored boots not sinking into the water-  _ not even a little bit. _

Grif watched in fear and wonder as the Cosmic Power continued to walk upon the surface, the rain not bothering him or the ripples and pull of the water beneath him.

"The Covenant has glassed this planet, a term I'm sure you are unfamiliar with," he continued to walk forward, heading far from the hangar, directly into the lulling storm. "The biosphere has been mutilated, no human can breathe it's air any longer, and you- you are the  _ only survivor." _

Turning around to face him, winds twirling the water beneath him, the God looked at Grif, saying, "Now, Private Grif, if you follow me, only I can keep you safe. You will get off this planet and live if you follow in my stead." 

He may be only twenty, and he's just experienced war in a way he never even  _ thought _ he would when he enlisted. But right now-

Right now he's more enraptured with the sight that he may have come in contact with some holy being. 

From when he'd been teetering on either side of the fence, proclaiming maybe's and perhaps, he feels himself sway with the winds and the force of the rain. He sees himself looking at a God walking on water that he himself had been submerged in not too long ago, and he sees himself looking down at only one side of the fence. And he feels himself jump off, no longer on the fence about it. 

A God looked at Grif and Grif looked back. 

* * *

Burnstorm brought him to a large crater outside of the protection of the base. The chills and cuts of the wind went right through Grif, and the water continued to drip down his face but he didn't protest.

The Cosmic Power had pointed at the crater and said, "When the symbol fills with water, only then will your UNSC come back to you."

"Symbol," he asked. "It's just a crater, what do you mean?"

"You think the Covenant as barbaric creatures," Burnstorm slide down the crater and the mud shifted as he did so. Landing on the water he judged how much was in it, settling his hammer down into the depths, not satisfied with how the level only reached the head of it. "But they are as much religious as humans are. There are meanings behind their actions, even when they glass planets such as this one."

"So this crater, it's just one part of a symbol," Grif looked towards the distance, seeing light marks against the ground leading to and from the crater, but none as deep as it. "What does the symbol mean?"

The Cosmic Power didn't respond, but Grif heard creaking and his eyes widened as he saw the being rise in form, growing and growing until he could rival skyscrapers. Walking out of the crater, the world rumbled and the ground shook, passing by Grif water slide off of his armor in miniature waterfalls, the rush of it pooling onto the ground.

Then Burnstorm stood in the near center of the storm, presided over the desolate planet, his great mass and height forming a brief barrier from the rain, a mountain blocking the torrent of raindrops and the barrage of winds.

Speaking one word, the world quiet and deadly but then alive, he announced, "The Covenant has killed this planet with mercy."

And then he returned to his normal height, lofty as he stood away from Grif. 

Mercy. He wondered on the nature of that word. 

The Covenant hasn't shown this planet anything. Grif sees the way the ground is petered with a shiny glean, he's been walking over the glass beneath his feet. And where there is no glass there is mud and sludge and blood and shrapnel and rubble. 

And where there is not any of that there are decomposing bodies, and there are bones. 

Hands reaching out for a gun. Hands reaching out for a smaller pair of hands, a mother cradled around her child, tatters of clothing the only indication that those bony bodies had once been alive. Had once been human.

There wasn't mercy for their own forces, Grif has seen as many dead UNSC soldiers as he has seen dead Covenant soldiers.

There was no mercy in what happened here. There was no mercy in war.

But looking at the Cosmic Power he's reminded that the God has granted mercy upon Grif's soul.

He, the one who had denied the existence of him for much of his short life. He, the kid who skipped out of going to Church to goof off with whatever minuscule amount of friends he had.

He, Private Grif, had caught the attention of a God and the God had judged him and deemed him worthy.

He didn't feel worthy, didn't feel like  _ he _ should have been the one to live when there were so many other  _ dedicated _ worshipers somewhere on this planet before the attack.

Grif was shown mercy and now he owed a debt to a greater being- and he feels something click as he realizes that there must  _ indeed _ be a plan for him, that he was to do something greater. There must be a reason why he is worthy.

So they returned constantly to that crater, among others. 

A small part of Grif whispers to him that these used to be cities, that a population of people had once lived here. That life had thrived here once, but now it wouldn't again.

And he judges the water, watches as the storm continues to rage on and the water rise and rise and rise.

The Cosmic Power is with him every step of the way. Always by his side as a reminder, a reminder that everything has happened for a reason. A reminder that Grif was meant  _ to live. _

He had a purpose.

"Which one was right?" he asked once. His head bowed down, watching the water continue to rise in the crater. He was so used to the water that soaked down into his bones, he no longer felt any kind of chills. 

He thinks he would be more freaked out if he was every dry again. It's been months, and he still wonders how he hasn't died yet. 

"How do you mean," the Cosmic Power lumbered over, towering over the hole, judging the water level himself.

Looking up at the  _ God _ he clarifies, "Which religion was most right? There are other Cosmic Powers, right? So none of the monotheistic ones, clearly."

"You presume to think little of our reach," Burnstorm glanced down at him before moving towards the base. "We are not few, we are many, and we affect all."

"So," Grif mulls it over in his head. "Everyone was right?"

"Correct," Burnstorm nodded his head. 

"But- but what about," he very near tripped over himself to follow the God. "The _ wars? _ All the fights over who was right and wrong? Why didn't you come down and stop them? Saved all those peoples lives?"

"If we interfered over every squabble, you would have no purpose," Burnstorm turned towards Grif, who stopped a few feet away from him. "You humans are always so self-centered. There are matters that we must attend to that hold a far greater value than  _ anything _ you desire to concern us with."

"Like what," Grif asked. He felt himself blush, face heating up, at how petulant that question sounded. It sounded like he was trying to challenge the God on what he said- in turn proving his point.

But the God rarely ever tells Grif anything. Only makes him question and question.

"The stability of the universe and time," the Cosmic Power answered honestly.  _ "That _ matters far more than  _anyone_ of you humans. What you see as war and death, we see as peace."

"'The stability of the universe and time'," Grif repeated, mulling over the words as he said them. 

"That is the purpose for our existence," Burnstorm nodded. "That reigns above us all, we are meant  _ to protect it." _

Grif flinched at the sudden change of tone from the God. In all the months that he had been around the holy being, he had never raised his voice, had never heard the Gods words turn to ice. 

He didn't want to see the fury of a God. Didn't want to test the limits of his rage. 

His mind jumps to all the natural disasters that occurred in the Bible. The world was already flooding, he didn't want to know how much worse the world could get if the God turned his anger towards him.

"King Atlus is a fool," Burnstorm growled out. "He would rather sit back and just  _ let _ everything we've protected go to ruin due to the actions of mere mortals- common  _ idiots. _ He doesn't deserve to rule, and  _ yet he does." _

The Cosmic Power gripped his gravity hammer but didn't swing it at Grif, although he feared that he might.

"The Fates are  _ not _ the final say," the God spit out. "Why should we roll over and let them control what they have only  _ seen _ and do not  _ know- _ it is  _ illogical. _ Predictions that's all they are."

He didn't know what the Cosmic Power was ranting about, he was sure that it was above anything he could possibly understand.

The matters of Gods were not meant for humans.

"But you," Burnstorms helmet turned towards Grif's small form, shivering lightly in the rain. "You are the  _ only _ one who could possibly be a boon to me."

"How?" he took a small step forward. The God was clearly distressed by something, Grif wanted to help but he didn't  _ know how. _

"You are important to me," and where that would have made Grif protest before, now it made him happy. Because if he could repay the great debt that he owed the God, then he could finally make up for that act of mercy that was bestowed upon him. "You are a Red, you have heard the stories of our Messenger, and you are the only one out of your bunch that believed in our mission."

Grif doesn't recall doing any of this, but he guesses that it must be something that he _would_ do. The God mentioned time, likely he wasn't stuck in one spot, he could wade through it as he pleased. 

And something would happen where the God needed his help. 

He would gladly give it.

"Your loyalty is of the utmost importance to me," the Cosmic Power knelt down on one knee, his helmet leaning down towards Grif. "I  _ need _ you to pledge your life to my cause, to  _ me _ most of all. Not to the Cosmic Powers and their  _ weak _ leader, only  _ I _ can protect time as  _ it should be." _

He already owed his life to the God, he would have been dead a thousand times over, the God had made sure he would survive until the UNSC would come back to this forgotten colony and the bodies that got a watery grave. 

Grif hated war, hated what it did to people. This colony wasn't important, but it was in the way and for that, it was punished. They were given mercy, and they were given death.

He didn't want to fight in something because there was some sort of power grab going on, didn't want to fight in a war that was only a drop of blood in a ripple of a greater plan.

The God before him had given him mercy, had proven that he was benevolent, the God knew that humans were merely just a stepping stone to a more important purpose. 

And he wanted Grif to pledge his life to that. Wanted him to offer himself up to something beyond him, beyond his mortal limitations. 

Grif had been twenty, and in a few more months he would be twenty-one. He was young, too young.

"Of course," he says breathlessly.

* * *

His God has informed him on a great many of things as he waited.

Above all, He has warned him about the Titan that desires to destroy time itself. He has warned him about the temptation of time travel, how it lures people into fixing their mistakes when in reality there is nothing to fix. 

All were judged before their conception and those who were bad were condemned and those who were good were rewarded.

But not him, he's a special case. The Reds and Blues were inherently Agents of Chrovos, they were the fault in humanity that needed correction. He reminds Grif that he was a Red, will be a Red and that he too was a problem.

But  _ his _ mistakes could be corrected and they were, that was the most important thing. He was the only one to get redemption because he was important. He could fix the mistakes of the other Reds and Blues, by any means necessary.

Stop them. From what he didn't know exactly. He just had to stop them from destroying time. When? He didn't know, his God said it would come to him.

His God also said that it had been a year since the destruction of the colony. That he had aged in a whirlwind of time passed by, not acknowledging how much older he had gotten as it didn't matter much.

The crater had filled to the top, the last thing that could flood was the very planet itself. The storm was not satisfied and the planet was a lost cause.

By all rights, the UNSC should give up on it, but his God said that they would come when the water had reached the top, and his God would be right as there was nothing else he  _ could _ be.

"I must leave, my purpose for being here has been completed," the Cosmic Power announced. 

Grif didn't say anything, didn't speak out of turn. He merely waited by the newly formed lake, watching as his God crafted a portal to return to the proper time.

A part of him panicked. It would be the first time in a year where he would be left alone- without guidance or correction. But his God said the UNSC would come, which meant that  _ they would. _

"I shall see the fruits of my labor very soon, and you too I shall see momentarily," and with that, his God walked through the portal.

So he was alone on the colony. 

The hiss of his mask kept him company, as the water continued to assault the planet and him. And he waited.

For the first time in a year he felt the freezing water settle upon his skin and his uniform, he felt the way it rubbed against him rough and coarse from wearing it for a year.

His head felt dizzy and he collapsed onto his knees in a splash, the mud tarnishing his clothes further than he thought they could anymore.

The world went spinning and the hisses grew louder, and he felt very,  _ very _ alone.

He heard something- a loud sound of something entering the broken atmosphere. Breaking past the storm and landing on the surface, landing near the Mercy. 

Grif heard the thoughts, shocked proclamations that he was alive,  _ and of course he was alive. _

He was shone mercy, and only he was alive.

He's not in control of his body as he's carried onto the ship, brought to an infirmary. He's not in control of his mind when he watches a strange man walk into the room and ask him questions.

He doesn't answer most of them, doesn't answer the ones asking him about his mental state. 

The person wants to know how he coped with being the only person alive on the planet, surrounded by bodies. 

But he wasn't alone. So he doesn't answer.

He perks up only when the man asks him, "There's a program we think would benefit you, perhaps you could enlist in the Red Army? Fight for a cause, instead of returning unbalanced to the world again."

Red Army. The man was asking if Grif wanted to be a Red. 

He already was.

It was no arduous task for him to agree. 

* * *

"Something's wrong," Simmons hears Grif mutter behind him. The panic of being caught by Locus and the two past Freelancers was gone, but Simmons feels his heart rate spike when he hears just how ill Grif sounds saying that.

"Grif what are you even talking about," Tucker hisses. He and Carolina look like they're getting antsy, and Simmons knows they just want to hurry and save Wash already, but they way Grif raises his hand to his helmet has him concerned.

"I- I feel really ill," Grif stuttered. "I- it feels like my skins fucking crawling, and-  _ something's wrong." _

Simmons sees Carolina glance at Tucker, but she moves closer to Grif asking, "What do you mean something's wrong?"

"I feel different," Grif admits. "Like- like I'm not in my own body. And I can't- Simmons I can't remember what the colony looks like."

"Colony?" Carolina asks, only to be ignored by Simmons soft, "What?"

Grif had only confided in him once, back in Blood Gulch about where he was previously stationed. It was in quiet murmurs that he got even  _ some _ information out about it. Apparently, Grif was the sole survivor of it. Simmons didn't know how to process the information then, and he didn't know how to now.

"What was it like," Grif asks. "Simmons I don't remember."

"How can you not remember," Simmons heard his voice crack slightly. "Ok, uh. You told me that once that it was very quiet after everything was all done and over with. That the only sounds that you could hear were your own breathing, that not even a single animal survived earlier."

"Simmons what are you talking about," Carolina cut in. "What colony is this?"

"It's where- where Grif was stationed before he came into Project Freelancer," Simmons explained.

"No," Grif spoke up. "No- there was- there was sound. There was so much rain, how could I not remember the rain?"

His gun clattered to the floor as both hands pressed against his helmet. 

Something was very, very wrong.

"Grif, no. You made it very clear how quiet the planet was after everyone else died," Simmons stepped towards him, placing the time gun on his back to free his hands. "I- I never told you this, but I looked into the colony after you told me about it. It's was practically a desert when you left, and it still is now. They haven't bothered to try re-terraforming it."

"No, there was a storm, Simmons  _ there was so much water," _ Grif grabbed Simmons outstretched hands. "I was there for a year, did I tell you that? It never stopped raining."

"Grif, you were there for only two months, you weren't there for a year," Simmons felt his heart beat against his chest. 

This wasn't like Grif, how could he be confusing the details like this. The vivid way he recalled it to Simmons that day, he knew that Grif wouldn't be able to forget the experience  _ ever. _ And yet here he was talking about it like history had suddenly changed-

No.

_ No. _

A different attack at an earlier date, he could spend a year there, get sent to basic training with Simmons and still be stationed at Blood Gulch at the proper time. No paradox included.

Someone had-  _ no. _

"No, it was for a year," Grif nodded his head. "It was for a year and the rain never stopped. Did I tell you how the hangar was flooded and the bodies just floated? They looked like dolls. Even the aliens. Did I tell you that?"

"Grif," Simmons yanked his hands out of Grif's grasp and placed both of them on his shoulders. "Grif that  _ never happened. _ That's not what happened originally!"

"Originally," Tucker's voice questioned before it turned hard, "Simmons did one of those asshole Cosmic Powers  _ change _ time. Those fucking hypocrites!"

Grif's head perked up towards Tucker at that. "The Cosmic Powers."

Simmons felt his blood run dry at the way Grif praised their name. But now they had a culprit. Now they had a reason. 

"He offered me mercy, Simmons," he looked back at Simmons. "Simmons, Mercy killed the planet."

"Which one?" Carolina approached Grif. "Which Cosmic Power destroyed the colony?"

"No," Grif shook his head. "No, the colony was killed with Mercy. He offered me mercy because I was important."

"Why do you keep saying that," now Tucker approached Grif.  _ "Mercy, _ what's that supposed to mean?"

"Simmons," Carolina looked sharply at him. "Did Grif ever say who attacked the colony?"

"It- it was the Covenant, he said everyone died but him," he held back the detail that it was only by pure happenstance that he happened to be sleeping while the attack happened. It wasn't an important detail, they didn't have to know that.

"Was the colony glassed?" She asked. 

"Yes," it was Grif who answered her. "Yes, it was, everyone was killed with Mercy, He said so."

"Then that answers that," she concluded, not bothering to share that detail with the rest of them. "Grif- who offered you mercy, who was that?"

"My God," he said with finality, and it made Simmons shiver. 

Grif wasn't religious, had never really been convinced. He speculated, sure. He jokingly said he clicked, 'all of the above' when asked what his religion was. But Grif wasn't religious.

"Atlus?" Tucker guessed.

Grif shook his head, "Atlus is weak."

Simmons thought briefly of the smallest Cosmic Power, the AI that seemed to have more screws loose than the rest of them. He quickly dismissed him along with Kalirama, thinking back onto the one AI who seemed frustrated with their nonsense, seemed agitated when Atlus joined in.

"Burnstorm?" Simmons questioned.

"He saved me, He could have let me die, but  _ He didn't," _ Grif stilled for a moment. He shook off Simmons' hands and tilted his head down. "He saved me so that I could stop you."

"Stop us," Carolina became on edge. And suddenly Simmons remembered the  _ reason _ why they were all here at this moment in time again.

"You're going to cause a paradox, that's bad," Grif had his pistol in his hand, ignoring the gun on the floor. "I have to stop you, He told me I had to."

That- Simmons felt disgusted by that. That- that  _ fucking AI _ had gone back in time and changed his- changed Grif to his whims just- just to stop them from saving Wash?

Why? What was so wrong with making sure that their friend was safe- was  _ ok? _

But he saw Carolina stiffen and she murmured, "Paradox?"

"If you stop now I don't have to kill you," Grif sounded excited at that prospect. He lowered the gun and asked in a confused tone, "Why do I want to kill you?"

A loud gunshot rang through the base as Grif put a hand to his head, pistol shaking in his grip, "Something’s wrong."

Tucker turn and ran- ran towards the area where Wash was shot originally,  _ and where he had just gotten shot again. _

Carolina followed after him, and so did the others. Until it was only Grif and Simmons left in the corridor.

Grif fell to his knees, clutching his helmet in his hands, muttering over and over, "Something's wrong, something's wrong,  _ something's wrong-" _

Simmons knelt down next to him and gathered him in his arms. 

Grif clutched at him, gasping out, "Simmons- the colony it- I was alone- there was rain- but I was alone, but there was someone there-"

Carolina and Tucker raged through the base, angry at how they had  _ failed. _

But Simmons didn't care. Looking down at Grif he feels bitter and angry.

There are people more important to Wash.

And there has to be some way to fix this.

**Author's Note:**

> It took me a while to figure out how to justify the time travel in this one since all the changes the Reds and Blues made in history never intertwined with their _own_ life timeline. The show makes a point to show that their memories of the events they changed stay with them, and don't align with the new ones they created. But none of these changes were directly made to their lives. 
> 
> It also seemed like the show was going off on the idea that, "So long as your changes are only substitutions to what originally happened, and everything goes on the same way as before, it's not a paradox." So that's what Burnstorm did in this, to him what he's doing is fine because Grif _still_ was on the colony, everyone _still_ died except him, and he _still_ was put into the Red and Blue subsection of Project Freelancer.
> 
> Sorry for extrapolating like that, but I just wanted to make sure no one was too confused! If you have any more questions or anything of that sort, you can find me at my Tumblrs: @agent-murica (main and where I'm accepting prompts) and @amateurscribes (writing)!


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